it's equivalent fucking exchange
by cancerous cactus
Summary: Ed lives a peaceful life in Central, or as peaceful as you can get when when your new neighbor turns out to be the infamous Flame Alchemist. Or a version of the Flame Alchemist, as it's really hard to connect the broken man on his porch with the monster that helped burn Ed's city to the ground.


**AN:** there's gonna b more but probably just more one shots in this AU tbh bc i can't write multi-chapter fics to save my whole ass life so if you wanna read more subscribe to my fucking profile i guess? or just get an AO3 account please god it's so much easier. it will probably devolve into roy/ed later so if u don't like that don't read the ones following this

* * *

The knock on his door is quick and sharp, subtly implying that the door needs to be answered or Ed would regret it. And Ed finds, upon answering the door, that he would indeed regret it if he hadn't answered. The man in front of him is unfairly gorgeous, sharp, high cheekbones and an intimidating jawline, and if it weren't for the fact that he was clearly military, (the straightness of his spine and the noticeable tenseness in his eyes when he notices that Ed is very clearly _not_ from the cities of Amestris) Ed would have jumped his bones from the moment he laid eyes on him. But anyone with eyes wouldn't blame him if he still really, _really_ , wants to. "Greetings," the man fucking _purrs_ (and holy shit, Ed did not know that real people made those kinds of noises), "I'm new in the neighborhood, in fact I live right next door, and I just wanted to get familiar with my immediate neighbors." He extends a gloved hand, and Ed tenses marginally at the array stitched onto the back of the hand. It looks like- "Roy Mustang," a small smirk and Mustang slides his other hand through his hair, "at your service."

The fucking Flame Alchemist lives next door to him. Fucking _what_.

It takes everything in his body not to slam the door in his stupid, smarmy face. Ed doesn't think he should _kill_ him, because, logically, he knows genocide isn't the _Flame's_ fault, but Ed fought in that war, knows what his people smell like after getting cooked alive, seen what little infant bodies look like after they've been set on fire-

"Is this your way of saying you're here to finish what's left of my people, _Flame_?" He spits instead of the yelling and the pleading that wants to escape, and his flesh hand that rests on the door knob is clenched so tight it shakes minutely from the force. The guilt and anguish in the Flame's eyes is the only thing that keeps him from clapping and sending the man careening into the depths of Central city, it would be so fucking easy- the stiffness in the Flame's body, he wouldn't have the time to even blink before he would be six feet deep, literally, and soon after the air ran out, figuratively- it would be so fucking _eas_.

"I- I'm sorry." The Flame says quickly, his eyes searching for something, possibly any sign of forgiveness, but only Ishval could save this man now, but Ed played god once and it ended with two missing limbs and thousands of nights laying awake wondering when Truth was going to pop up and ask for just _one more thing_.

So instead, instead he says: "I know you are. There's nothing in this world you can do to make up for the lives you've ruined, the people you've slaughtered-" he doesn't feel guilty about the violent flinch that elicts from the Flame, "but you can certainly try, and you can try for the rest of your life." He breathes deep and feels his anger mitigate, turn into something slightly less malicious. Killing this man would be a mercy. He knows from experience that when your mind is as tortured as this man's is, death welcomed. "This is _your_ toll, Flame, and as we alchemists love to say-" he sees the crushing resignation in the man's eyes, knows he's resigning to a life of guilt and crippling self-loathing, "it's equivalent fucking exchange."

There are tears misting the man's eyes, and Ed knows his are just as misty, and he finally rasps out after a long moment of staring, "please get off my fucking porch."

A jerky nod, "I-" Ed stares into dark eyes and wonders where you go after this, what you do, because for as many Amestrians he killed in the war, he felt no guilt. They were all combatants, many of them believing fully in their cause, and he doesn't allow himself to think about the draft, or those who didn't want to be there. "Thank you." Mustang finishes awkwardly, "if you ever need anything, _anything_ , I want to help- please, I know that's presumptuous of me but- _please_."

"I'm closing the door before anymore blood-sucking assholes get in my house. Mosquitos are a bitch and I hope you get bit on the eye." Ed says, going for an amused look to make sure Mustang knows he's not _truly_ wishing demons from hell to feast on his eyes.

He closes the door and hears a huff from the other side and feels something light in his chest. Ed would like to think he just helped someone, and no matter who it is, helping people has always been something that he's loved, and there's still anger there, somewhere deep down, but it feels harder to grasp than before, a little more healed than before and that's… nice.

* * *

"Maes, that house you recommended I move to, an Ishvalan lives next door, I-" he's sobbing now, "can you please just come over? I don't want to be alone." If it sounds like he's whining, Maes doesn't mention it.

 _"I- Roy- of course. I'm heading over right now."_ The receiver clicks and Roy lets the phone fall limply from his hand where he's sprawled on his floor crying and whining like a child but-

But that was the closest Roy is ever going to get to forgiveness.


End file.
